The Book of Forbidden Wisdom

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  “A brand might make me feel owned.”

  There was silence. The light from the fire outside made strange shadows on the walls of the tent. Silky spoke again.

  “The Bard told me that some women died rather than be branded, and I didn’t understand. But now I think I do.”

  “Enough of those thoughts, Silky,” I said, a little alarmed. “It’s going to be all right. Garth doesn’t seem the type to hurt women.”

  “You said it wasn’t a man thing.”

  “I suppose I did.” I sighed. “Just trust me, Silky.”

  “Oh, Angel,” she said. “I always trust you. I always will.”

  Soon I heard her breathing regularly. She was asleep.

  The wound in my shoulder ached; it throbbed in time with my heart, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep for a long time.

  I had to save Silky. And I also had to save myself. And I knew, deep down, that there was a chance I could do neither. I would do anything to keep Silky safe, but what if anything wasn’t enough?

  I lay awake and looked at the shadows until dawn.

  The next day we turned off into a long lane lined with shrubs cut in mysterious shapes. In Arcadia, bushes shaped like swans and deer and squirrels lined the front of our house; here, although the bushes were carefully shaped, they looked like unfinished letters, or like a code I hadn’t been taught to read.

  Garth saw me looking at the shrubs.

  “Tributes to the Word, our sacred book,” he said. “A generation ago, we were traditionalists. Times change, but I like reminders of the past.”

  “Garth,” I said. “Before we reach your house. Before anyone except your men even knows we’re here, why don’t you just let us go?”

  Garth looked at me for a long time.

  “Two women traveling alone in Shibbeth wouldn’t last long,” he said finally.

  “You’ve been a good host,” I said. “But the time comes for guests to leave. Silky and I are willing to take our chances.”

  “I have plans for you, Lady Angel,” he said. “And I have plans for the Lady Silky, too. And they’re plans to your advantage. You will come to see that. Through the right marriages, you see, the sons of my House can gain a foothold in Arcadia.”

  “You want Arcadian land,” I said. “Of course you do.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  But he seemed to feel he had said enough.

  We rounded the bend to his house.

  It was a palace. A palace with what looked like a hundred windows winking in the sun. A palace built out of many-­shaded marble, so that it glowed rose and yellow and green and white.

  I noted that all the windows were far from the ground. We were about to enter an exquisite cage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Baths of Roses and Milk

  “It’s beautiful,” said Silky.

  “You’re acting as though you’d spent your whole life in a shepherd’s cottage,” I said, but my mind was elsewhere. We had to get away from Garth, and we had to get away soon.

  We were already overdue in Parlay. Trey would wait for us—­I knew that. But I wanted the Bard to be there too. I remembered how, that day he had helped me to my feet, he had seemed so warm—­and he had chosen to road with us when I had asked him. Surely he would wait for us. For me. I was beginning to think that he and I were bound in ways I didn’t fully understand—­that maybe I didn’t want to understand.

  For only a moment did I entertain the idea that it might be better for all of us if he had moved on.

  As we rode up to the great doors, servants rushed from the house and stood in two rows. Some women wore veils and a few did not. A number of the older men were dressed like traditionalists.

  “I’m scared,” whispered Silky.

  But I was looking around hopefully. “There must be a hundred ways out of this place,” I murmured.

  Garth addressed the oldest woman there.

  “Take the Lady Angel and the Lady Silky to the restricted women’s quarters,” said Garth. “They are our reluctant guests. See to it that the Lady Angel’s shoulder wound is tended to, and treat them with every deference.”

  “Except, of course, liberty,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Garth, nodding pleasantly. “Except that.”

  The old woman took us through the palace. Corridors and doors flicked by and embedded themselves in my mind. It was time to use my prodigious memory. Just as I could read a line from a book and know it forever, I could memorize the patterns of a building. From a hallway we didn’t take—­one less ornate than the others—­wafted the smell of cooking. I would remember that. And then I smelled incense, and the old woman opened a small door, and we passed through.

  We found ourselves in an open courtyard surrounded by high walls. Everywhere there were pots filled with curious flowers and exotic plants, and in the center, water from a fountain bubbled and splashed through bells, making chiming sounds. Several women in long loose robes were resting on divans, their hair down, no veils in sight. They glanced up at Silky and me with interest.

  I stared around me. The women’s quarters were lavish beyond belief. Everything seemed overdone, from the gush of perfumes that greeted us when the old woman opened the door, to the gilded ornate musical fountain. Later we were to see luxurious sleeping chambers that had walls covered with tapestries—­tapestries with a weave and patterns so fine that the weavers must have risked blindness.

  “Mistress Charmian will show you around,” said the old woman, and she called over a girl no older than Silky. Charmian’s lips were painted into a small bow, and her eyelids were streaked with blue; she had a fine, heart-­shaped face, but there was something sly about her. She gave us a small smile, and her bow-­lips thinned unpleasantly.

  “Is this a harem?” blurted out Silky.

  “Silky,” I hissed. “There haven’t been harems in Shibbeth for over a hundred years.”

  Charmian laughed. “This is where the women of the house can come for privacy. It’s perfectly safe here.”

  “Can you leave when you want?” I asked.

  “The guard at the door lets us in and out,” said Charmian. “But you’re Lord Garth’s special guests.”

  Her first non-­answer.

  “We’d like to go out,” said Silky.

  “You just arrived,” said Charmian. “In a few hours they’ll bring in tea, for those who want it. There’s everything you could want here. Lord Garth even indulges us with baths of roses and milk. And this evening Bard Fallon sings.”

  “Why would I want a bath of roses and milk?” asked Silky.

  Charmian laughed. “It’s good for the skin,” she said.

  Charmian was beginning to grate on me.

  “Are you Garth’s daughter?” I asked. If so, I thought, he should have a word with her. She was far too young to be painting her face.

  “I’m Lord Garth’s wife,” she said. “He has grown sons by his first wife, true, but we’ll have children soon enough. I’ll see that it’s my children that inherit. His second wife was barren.”

  I could tell this was somehow supposed to impress me.

  “Are you branded?” blurted out Silky.

  “Of course.” Charmian pushed back her hair to reveal her left cheek. Where she had been branded, the skin was taut and unnaturally white; the scar extended from her cheek onto her neck. She saw the look on my face.

  “Lord Garth’s brand is bigger than most,” she said. “He likes to mark his possessions.”

  “Didn’t it hurt?” asked Silky.

  Charmian smiled and the lips thinned. She looked sly again. Then she said, “The branding is a time of great celebration. You’ll see.” I thought not. And I realized that this Charmian was filled with guile, all guile.

  Tea was brought in by the door we had used, and when it was, Ch
armian, now veiled, took her leave. She was away for over an hour, and when she returned, her mood was not good. No more smiles.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Silky.

  “On the contrary,” said Charmian. “I have been informed you are particularly honored guests.” She couldn’t have made it any more clear that the news didn’t sit well with her.

  The evening drew on, some of the other women left, and Charmian explained that they were the wives and daughters of Garth’s companions and guards. They had homes to go to.

  “But you’re special,” said Charmian, clearly making an attempt to speak brightly. “Or Lord Garth wouldn’t bother with you. How long were you together on the road?”

  I explained that we had been forced to move slowly because of my wound.

  “But how lovely for you,” she said. “Except for the wound, of course. So rustic. I’d love to go beyond the walls, but Lord Garth says it’s dangerous. You must be very brave.”

  “Not really,” I muttered.

  “Yes,” said Silky. “She is.”

  I gave Silky a look that would have quenched a forest fire. Charmian shook a finger at me. “Not ladylike, though,” she said. “All that outside travel.”

  I couldn’t believe this girl-­woman was only thirteen or fourteen. She behaved like a matron. I wished she would observe the ‘Lidan virtue of silence, but perhaps that was only practiced before men.

  It was one of the longest afternoons of my life. Charmian wouldn’t leave us alone, and she didn’t stop talking. She prattled. And we did nothing. We didn’t play games, or do needlework, or do anything practical, like cleaning horse tack or practicing archery.

  Not that they would have given us crossbows.

  I was bored.

  Later, Garth’s herbalist came, and Charmian stood by as he examined the wound in my shoulder.

  “I’m healing,” I said.

  “You are,” he agreed. “But unless you move that arm as I show you, it will freeze into place.” He gave me some of the ‘Lidan brew for pain and then had me raise and lower my arm. I tried not to cry out, but when I gave an involuntary moan, I saw Charmian’s lips thin. She was smiling.

  When the herbalist left, Charmian took us to the baths. The room was cool, and the sound of trickling water was everywhere.

  “Lord Garth said to prepare the best,” said Charmian. “Baths of roses and milk for both of you. Lord Garth’s orders. ” She laughed. “All the women are jealous.”

  I looked down at the watery-­white liquid that filled a copper hipbath. A few limp-­looking rose petals floated on the surface.

  “That’s really milk?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And you’re the first to bathe in it today. So privileged.”

  “I’m not getting in there,” said Silky. “I’m not taking a bath in milk; I don’t even like to drink milk. I’m not sitting in it.”

  But I could see that the more reluctant we were, the happier Charmian would be, and that all we did would be reported to Garth. I took off my clothes with Silky’s help—­it was too painful to undress alone—­and climbed in. Charmian didn’t even show the respect of turning her back.

  I got out, dripping tepid milk, and helped Silky in for her turn. I would have given a lot for a bath of cool water. As the milk dried, it became sticky. Several interested flies buzzed around me.

  “Can I rinse?” I asked Charmian.

  “As you like.” She didn’t look pleased, but she provided us with washing water, and we laved off the petals and clammy milk as best we could.

  I wanted to gather information, to speak to Garth, to escape—­to do something—­but the very air was filled with a stupefying kind of languor. Nothing here was going to happen in a hurry. In fact, nothing much at all seemed to happen in the women’s quarters, baths of roses and milk aside.

  “It’s time for the afternoon rest,” said Charmian. “Later we’ll hear Bard Fallon and then have supper.” She took us to our beautiful, stuffy, over-­perfumed room. Silky examined the tapestries on the wall while I wondered if we could force our way out, but the tiny window was high in the wall, and too small for even Silky to wiggle through.

  I thought about going back through the door and remembered how all the women looked soft and spoiled and languorous. Even Silky, small as she was, would probably have had no trouble overpowering one or two of them, but outside the door was the world of men and weapons, and the men, if they were anything like Garth and his traveling companions, were not soft.

  As Silky and I lay on divans in our sleeping room, I slipped into a living dream—­the ‘Lidan pain brew was strong.

  I was looking into the Bard’s face, and he was leaning forward, and I realized he was going to touch me with his lips. Then the moment seemed to tilt, and the face was no longer that of the Bard.

  It was Trey’s.

  I awoke feeling sick, and when I came to my senses Charmian was standing over me, as if she had been there for some time, and I thought, suddenly, She could have killed me.

  “Lord Garth would like to see the Lady Angel,” she said abruptly. “I didn’t know you were a Lady.”

  Charmian walked me to the door leading out of the women’s quarters. From there I was escorted through the palace by a guard, who led me to a room filled with books. I had never seen so many books.

  Master Garth rose from his seat when I entered. He wasted no words.

  “You hate the women’s quarters,” he said.

  “After our travels, you must know that they suit neither Silky nor me.”

  “That’s the point,” said Garth. “The women of my House have thin blood. You and your sister would bring strength to us. I thought of this on our journey, and I’ve spoken to my advisors—­I want you and your sister to marry two of my sons. When it’s done, we will reconcile with your House, and I’ll see that you receive your dowry.”

  He clearly knew about my vast estates.

  So much for thin blood and strengthening the House and all of that. Marriage in both Arcadia and Shibbeth always seemed to come down to land greed.

  “I don’t think you’d find a reconciliation with my family possible,” I said, thinking of Kalo. “Even if Silky or I were in the mood to marry. Which we’re not.”

  “It doesn’t really matter what you think,” said Garth. “We’ll begin the preliminary ceremonies tomorrow. Charmian will see to it. In a month, when the brands have healed and you’ve learned our laws, you’ll be married. And then, finally, you will be silent.”

  And I had thought he liked our conversations.

  “No,” I said.

  “There’s no refusal,” said Garth. “Now go and listen to Bard Fallon. You won’t have much else to do in the coming years. Except add to our lands, and, of course, provide my sons with strong heirs.”

  So that would be the end. There would be no more Angel and Silky, just soft breeding women. The Garth I had begun to like on our journey was gone. Here, in his palace, Silky and I were no more than pawns.

  Trey, I thought, might still try and rescue me after the ‘Lidan marriage. But the woman he rescued would not be the same Angel he had known since childhood.

  When I returned to the women’s quarters, I saw that Charmian had donned a blue spangled silk gown that trailed on the ground in back. It clearly wasn’t made to be worn more than once.

  She had also informed Silky and the other women of the coming ceremony.

  The women congratulated me. You would have thought I had done something particularly clever—­there were looks of envy and reminiscences of the fuss made around each woman’s branding ceremony. They focused on descriptions of the food and drink provided, the camaraderie of the women, the extra baths of rose petals and milk. But none of them said anything about the branding itself. It couldn’t be as painful as the cauterization, but Silky and I we
re not—­we were not—­born to be branded. And, if they only knew it, neither were these women.

  I found Silky in our bedroom, in tears, her head turned toward the wall.

  “Do you really think the branding’s going to be horrible?” she asked me.

  “Horrible,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  “How can we stop it?”

  “We may have to fight our way out.”

  I saw Silky’s resolve build, and I thought to myself, Garth wants strong blood in his House? Then blood is what he’s going to get.

  Silky wiped her tears. “All right,” she said. “But if we fight, I’ll go for Charmian. She’s starting to annoy me.”

  I pulled Silky in for a fierce embrace. My shoulder ached as I held her, but, at that moment, I didn’t care about the pain.

  Charmian escorted us to the courtyard for the evening’s entertainment, utterly oblivious to the dangerous look in Silky’s eye. Soon after, Bard Fallon arrived: he was gaunt, with thinning white hair—­utterly unlike our Bard. Everyone settled down and relaxed on soft chairs or divans that had been brought into a circle. Silky and I shared a divan. An older woman whom I had seen before came and sat very close to us. She was wearing a great deal of face paint—­even more than Charmian—­and dark markings made her eyes seem huge in her small, lined face. Her pupils were hugely dilated, and I wondered if she put belladonna in them. Her lips were a deep red, and no one’s cheeks, not even Silky’s when she was embarrassed, were that blush. Under it all, I could see traces of a woman who must have been more than double my age, and a woman whose leisure may have been spent in thinking dark thoughts—­a woman who had been thinking dark thoughts for a long time.

  “I’m Danae,” she said. Her voice was soft and low.

  In a moment, Charmian was with us.

  “Leave them, Danae,” she said. “They have no time for idle gossip.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say. All that the women in the restricted quarters seemed to do was engage in idle gossip.

  “I want to wish them well at the marking ceremony,” said Danae. “Leave us.”